Positano Shared All Its Secrets With Me, As I Fell Face-First Into La Dolce Vita

A part of me would always remain here in this slice of paradise that rapidly retreated behind me in the distance, forever wandering the steep stairs and hidden alleys of Positano.

I gunned the engine of my fire red Vespa, the familiar purr resonated through my knuckles, as my fingers closed tighter around the throttle. I felt an instant surge of excitement coursing through my veins as my concentration centered fully on the curved road in front of me. Amalfi Drive stretched out as a serpentine ribbon of asphalt that hugged the rugged coastline like a lover's elegant embrace. This was my Under The Tuscan Sun moment. This was my road trip to Positano, the jewel of the Amalfi Coast. It was a place where beauty and danger danced a precarious tango on the edge of sun-drenched cliffs and cliff-clinging homes. It was a coastline of serenity and dreams. The wind whipped through my hair as I leaned into the first of what seemed like a thousand hairpin turns. Each bend in the road revealed a new vista, each one more breathtaking than the last. The Mediterranean Sea stretched out as far as the eye could see, a vast expanse of blue so intense it made my eyes ache. The sun glinted off the water, creating a dazzling display of light that seemed to mock the idea of a mundane existence.

Amalfi Drive was a sinuous ribbon of asphalt clinging precariously to the cliffs of the Italian western coastline. Every turn felt like it was almost daring me to take each curve with a whisper of reckless abandon. I felt connected to the road here as my tires spun beneath me, clinging to the asphalt. I was a road tripper and traveler on my Vespa. I was part of the landscape, weaving through the tapestry of blues and greens that made this coastline stunning and irresistible. The wind teased my hair as I leaned into the next set of turns, feeling the Vespa respond like an eager dance partner, light and agile, pushing against me in a dance of speed. Each twist and turn revealed new vistas, each one even more breathtaking than the last, an ever-changing canvas one moment there, then next, gone. I eased up on the throttle and began to glide along coastline. The scent of the sea erupted around me and mingled with the earthy aroma of lemon groves sprouting along the hillsides. It was an intoxicating and heady perfume that captured the very essence of the Italian coast and more specifically, Amalfi. I took fleeting glances over the Mediterranean as I rode by, watching the sun glinting off of the water creating a scene that looked a thousand diamonds scattered across the surface. My senses were on high alert, tuned into the rhythm of the road falling away behind me. I felt the hum of the small Vespa engine buzzing constantly below me. My eyes adjusted to the play of light and shadow as the sun moved across the pale blue sky bathing me in that famous Italian glare. Here, on the edge of the world, on this bright red scooter, there was a feeling of absolute freedom, and a connection to something both timeless and elemental.

The villages I passed were like jewels strung along this coastal necklace, each with its own charm and endearing allure. Whitewashed buildings cascaded down the hillsides, vibrant bougainvillea spilling over walls, their colors riotous against the stark white backdrop. My Vespa purred contentedly beneath me as I navigated these narrow streets as a whisper of a breeze kept the midday heat at bay. Locals waved as I pass by in a blur of blue jeans and red metal, their smiles were always warm and welcoming and were a reminder of the enduring hospitality of this timeless region.

I navigated the treacherous curves, leaning into some and taking others slowly to enjoy the view that seemed to fly by nearly all too fast. Tourists seeking la dolce vita, locals going about their daily lives, and perhaps even a few fugitives on the run from their weekly responsibilities at work taking a weekend trip all traveled in front or behind me. Amalfi Drive never discriminated and challenged all who dared to traverse its winding path. Even at my current speed, the scent of lemon groves and salt air filled my nostrils as I rounded the curves. They were an intoxicating cocktail that could only be found in this little slice of paradise. I passed by quaint villages perched precariously on the cliffside, their pastel-colored buildings defying gravity and common sense in equal measure. Each one seemed to whisper secrets of a simpler time, when life moved at the pace of a leisurely afternoon espresso or an Aperol spritz that crafted a lazy meander into an early evening indulgence.

I rounded the final bend at an irresponsible speed as Positano revealed itself like a stunning vista that drew dramatically into focus at the last possible moment. The view took my breath away. It was impossible not to feel something dramatic in my heart as the city rapidly jumped into focus. For a brief moment, I nearly forgot I was piloting a two-wheeled death trap on one of the most dangerous roads in the world. The old town seemed to cascade down the mountainside in a riot of colors and textures. Each building seemed to be stacked upon the next in a gravity-defying game of architectural Jenga. I approached Positano as the road began its descent, offering glimpses of the town perched like a sleepy dream above the sea. I slowed down quickly not for my safety, but to also savor the final stretch, the anticipation building with each kilometer that ticked down to my arrival. My Vespa and I became one with the road, a seamless harmony that made this journey feel nothing short of magical. I slowly pulled into the city, the sun hanging itself high in the deep blue sky, casting a golden glow over the pastel-colored buildings. The rays of light were like spotlights, emphasizing the riot of color that quite literally exploded from the hillsides. It was a moment of pure perfection.

I brought my Vespa to a full stop, the scooter jolting slightly as I switched the motor off. The ride here was simply stunning and truthfully, I slightly mourned the end of my exhilarating ride through the Italian countryside. However, I was definitely eager to explore the labyrinthine streets of Positano on foot, and peeled off my leather gloves, ready to pack my travel items away in the scooters locked compartment. I dismounted, lightly gliding the scooter's worn leather seat with my fingertips, feeling the warm leather and inhaling the sea breeze deeply. This place was a slice of heaven on earth. With my Vespa safely parked and tucked away, I set off on foot, ready to lose myself in the narrow alleys and steep stairways that gave Positano its unique character, vibrant color and its pulsating soul. The town seemed to unfold before me like a pop-up book, each turn revealing a new wonder, a new discovery and a new reason to stop and admire. I climbed the steep walkways, my calves burning with the effort, feeling a sense of accomplishment with each step. This wasn't a town for the faint of heart or the out of shape. However, with each labored breath came the reward of another stunning view, another reason to stop and take in the moment, and another glimpse into the daily life of this enchanted place. I was drawn into the quiet corners of Positano, away from the tourist throngs who had packed the narrow streets. In these hidden nooks, I discovered the true soul of the town. Old men sat around and played cards in the shade of ancient olive trees. They laughed about personal experiences, their weathered faces telling stories of an Italian life well lived by the sea. Women hung laundry from their balconies. As the wind blew through the small side streets, the colorful garments fluttering in the breeze like multicolored flags of a kaleidoscope of countries. These moments were unscripted and raw and were the true treasures of Positano.

I made my way through the town and was instantly drawn to the Chiesa di Santa Maria Assunta. The church stood like a guardian, its distinctive dome a beacon of faith amidst the secular beauty of Positano. It was built in the middle of Positano like a hidden gem in plain sight, its tiled dome glinting in the Mediterranean sun. The church added to the Positano’s rich tapestry of history and culture and was laced in ancient stories and tales that added to its character. The facade was simple yet elegant and continuously beckoned the curious traveler to step inside and explore the stories etched into its ancient stones. I wandered around the outside, marveling at this 10th century work of art and faith. I stepped inside feeling the cool interior bath me in relief. It was a welcome respite from the heat of the day pounding on the pavement outside. The church's beauty was understated yet profound. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the worn stone floor. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and centuries of prayers. The church was a sanctuary of cool, muted light and felt like a welcome respite from the glaring brilliance outside. The interior was a blend of Byzantine and Baroque influences, an echo of the diverse cultures that have passed through this coastal town. The centerpiece was a 13th-century icon of the Madonna, her expression serene yet commanding in the echoing hall. It was said that sailors heard the icon saying "Posa, posa!" Which meant “Put me down, put me down!” as if the icon wanted to go to Positano centuries ago, a relic from a time when the sea was both a highway and a mystery. Here, the air vibrated with whispers of the past, and each step reverberated through the marble floors that were awash with a history of pilgrimages and daily prayer.

The silence inside the church was profound. You could hear the gentle rustle of fabric or a slight cough from a seated patron as it echoed against the ceiling and the dome above. There was a stillness here that was broken only by the distant tolls of bells and the soft shuffle of footsteps that could be heard reverberating throughout the church. I wandered through the aisles touching with my eyes. I traced my fingers along the cool stone walls, feeling the weight of history and the smooth and rough textures of the past trying to communicate the story of this holy place. Stained glass windows filtered the sunlight into a multitude of colors as they crashed against the smooth floor, casting vibrant patterns that danced across the pews. Santa Maria Assunta was a place where the divine and the everyday intersected. It was a small church, by Italian comparisons, where the stories of saints and sinners alike were enshrined deep within its walls. Here, in this sacred space of tile and marble, I marveled at the beauty and resilience of human faith through the centuries, standing against the backdrop of an ever-changing world.

I left the church and wandered down Via dei Mulini. It was a quiet path, almost a secret back alley walkway that seemed to exist in a world of its own, away from the interest of tourists and visitors alike. The narrow walkway was lined with crumbling walls that were covered in veins of running ivy. The small street and the creeping vines all came together and created a small sanctuary in an otherwise heavily visited town. The sound of my footsteps echoed off the ancient stones lining the streets as I walked. I approached end of Via dei Mulini and randomly stumbled upon Hotel Palazzo Murat, an 18th-century palace that once housed the King of Naples. Now, it was transformed into a boutique hotel, but the building still exuded an air of regal elegance. I couldn't resist the urge to explore this beautifully crafted piece of Positano luxury and history, and wandered the grounds with no agenda and no rush to go anywhere at all. The hotel's gardens were sublime, a hidden oasis in the heart of Positano. Lush greenery surrounded me at every turn. With every breath, I could tell that the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and citrus. It was a soothing experience that created a moment of pure meditation. With every glance and every deep breath, my zen moment of the day was surrounding me and enveloping me in a deep state of relaxation. Fountains burbled softly, their gentle music was a counterpoint to the distant sound of the rolling sea that lapped gently against the Amalfi coastline. It was serene. It was calming and it was utterly soothing.

Reluctantly, I left the tranquil gardens of Palazzo Murat, walking away from a bit of serenity and traded them for a few crowds and a little bit of noise. Well, let’s be honest. There was a lot of noise. Willingly, I strolled into chaos and mayhem as I merged into the energy of Positano's famous shopping district. The narrow streets were lined with boutiques that seemed to cater to every whim and fancy as they pulled at the attention of visitors who arrived here to shop in this famous district. Handmade sandals, bespoke linen shirts, and exquisite ceramics beckoned tourists from every storefront. Traditionally, I walked right by shopping districts like these, preferring to walk through and simply get lost in the crowd. But this time, I will admit, curiosity got the better me. I had no agenda to stick to, no where pressing to be, no schedule and reservation that was waiting for me. It was this absolute freedom from responsibility that was the ultimate driver for my decision to wander into a small boutique on Viale Pasitea. I was drawn in by a display of vibrant scarves that seemed to capture the very essence of the Amalfi Coast and the Italian flare of life on the Mediterranean. The shopkeeper, an elegant woman with silver hair and kind eyes, greeted me warmly and wished me a good day, in English. Was I that obvious? I ran my fingers over the soft silk scarfs that dangled on the shelves feeling the smooth, cool texture on my skin. A slow breeze entered the shop and fluttered the material ever so gently in my hands. I smiled and thanked her for her time. I wandered out of the shop as lazily as I entered, preferring to return to the chaos and the noise of the throngs of people that moved as opposing currents through the cobblestone street.

I meandered down the sun-drenched streets turning right, turning left, and then turning right again. I climbed a staircase and then walked back down feeling like I was strolling through a living painting that seemed to be moving with me. The pastel-hued buildings, stacked one on top of another, rising against the cliff face, continued to defy gravity and common sense, even here. However, it appeared as though the homes look like they just sprouted from the coastline naturally, as though time and patience grew each dwelling from a seedling, year after year. But this, of course, was Positano. It was a place where logic took a backseat to beauty, and lunch was always an adventure of discovery and gastronomic indulgence. Speaking of food, the thought of it suddenly made my stomach rumble as I remembered that I hadn’t even had more than a cornetto and espresso for breakfast. And that was a long while ago, and back at the house before I left. I had spent so much of the day just walking around, that I completely forgot to feed myself when I arrived. Rolling my eyes at my lack of planning and giving in to the tourist books and the online recommendations, I found myself reluctantly drawn to Chez Black, a restaurant that was about as subtle as a punch in the face. It boasted a boat-themed interior and waiters dressed like extras from "The Love Boat.” This place was Internet famous and utterly screamed “tourist trap” the moment that I walked up and requested a table. But hell, sometimes you have to embrace the cliché. Take one for the team. Give in to Rick Steves. For all of my cynical complaining, one thing was clear, the food and the view was definitely a feast to lavish in and enjoy.

I settled into my seat, drinking in the view before deciding on which wine to actually drink. You could definitely tell the restaurants that catered to tourists. In Italy, a late lunch was always conducted on “Italy time.” For those that don’t think that this is an actual real expression, I would challenge the average tourist or traveler to find a local Italian restaurant for lunch and let the service speak for itself. If the waiters are quick to acknowledge you, fast to deliver your orders or quick to bring you the bill, then you my friend have stumbled on a tourist trap. However, if you find a joint that seats you, and you find yourself wondering “where, oh where could my server be?” If you find yourself trying to capture the attention of waiters as they they shuffle by you and they don’t acknowledge you or even give you the time of day, then my friends, you have found the crown jewel of the city. Lean back, turn your phone upside down, mute your smartwatch, and get ready for the experience of a lifetime. “Italy time” is absolutely a very real thing. Speaking of which, no sooner than I was lead to my table and settled in for a relaxing meal, did a waiter approach with all the enthusiasm of a man facing a firing squad. “Si?” he barked, his words cutting through the ambient chatter like a serrated knife through day-old bread. At least, I felt that in this instance, I wasn’t being obvious and actually used my Italian to order a bottle of 2015 Marchesi Antinori Tignanello Toscana, figuring if I was going to do this, I might as well do it right. Noticeable, my Love Boat day-player suddenly smiled toothily and ushered off to grab the stunning bottle that I just ordered. His mood definitely improved, his pace noticeably slowing.

With his spirit shifting and flowing to a happier tone, he displayed the bottle elegantly and pulled the cork out perfectly like an expert sommelier. He decanted it for me and slowly poured me a taste to wet my palate and prime my tastebuds. Using my Italian again to fit in and maybe to blend in as I kept the secret of being the accidental tourist, I ordered an array of dishes and politely asked "Per favore, porti i piatti con calma” which meant, please take your fucking time to bring these dishes… only nicely. I took a moment to savor the wine’s ruby depths. It had had been trapped in the bottle for nearly nine years, and I was giving it time to breath, to expand and to really show me what it was. This wine was a beautiful thing, this Tignanello – a Super Tuscan that could make even the most jaded wine connoisseur sit up, relax, and indulge. As I swirled it in my glass, I could almost hear the grapes singing a happy tune, gently stirring themselves awake. The winemaker’s alchemy coming into focus with every passing minute.

As I requested, the dishes arrived one at a time and slowly, allowing me the opportunity to fully enjoy this luxurious bottle of wine. My server slid the sea urchin in front of me and I was instantly hit with a wafting wave of scrumptious umami. It was a slap to the face, a wake up call of ocean salty goodness and creamy, velvety textures. Sea urchin was definitely an acquired taste. You either like it or you don’t. Some might take pause with the flavor, others might cringe with the texture. But if you are not squeamish towards either, then all I can say is that when it's good, it's transcendent. There was also something about the sun-drenched beauty of the Amalfi Coast that drew me in, making me want to peer into a slice of Italian life. It made me want to pause and enjoy, maybe perhaps even dream of taking a piece for myself one day to lavish in. But even in the views that I could drink in heavily for the rest of my life, it’s the food that really made me want stay. The sea urchins here were a treasure of silky roe. Each bite was an explosion of briny, creamy flavors. It was simply the pure essence of the sea that filled me, that mesmerized me, and and that gave me the moment to fully savor each and every bite. It was served simply, yet elegantly, with just a drizzle of olive oil and a squeeze of lemon. It needed nothing else. The oil was golden and fragrant and added a layer of richness that complemented the roe's natural sweetness. The lemon's natural acidity provided just the right punch, cutting through the richness with a zesty brightness. This was a dish that epitomized the Italian philosophy of letting quality ingredients shine without unnecessary embellishments. And it provided a very different taste than you would find in most sushi restaurants.

The octopus carpaccio arrived in the very staggered schedule that I longed for. There was no rush. No hustle. While I sat and sipped this amazing Super Tuscan, the restaurant filled and emptied in wave after wave of patrons who were running off to see the rest of the town or perhaps to shop until they dropped. Or even still, just being expertly filed out as the restaurant turned one table after another, after another, and after another. But in this moment, at my table, I savored my wine, my view, and this amazing octopus. And, I was in no rush to go anywhere because after all, I was on “Italy time.” Thin slices of tentacles were arranged like some eight-armed snowflake on the plate. It was tender, gently kissed with olive oil and lemon again. It was the simplest of preparations but yielded the best flavors as the chef let the octopus do all of the culinary conversations when it came to taste and texture.

As I waited for my main course to arrive, knowing that I purposefully wanted to take as much time as possible at this table, I let my eyes wander over the vista that opened itself in front of me. The Amalfi Coast stretched out like God's own screensaver. It was a riot of blue sea and vertiginous cliffs. Boats bobbed in the harbor, looking like toys in a giant's bathtub. People from all walks of like came to this very spot to take in the moment and enjoy the food and the view. Movie stars, politicians, regular schmucks like me – all of us united in our awe of this slice of paradise. From my table, I had the most perfect view. As always, the Mediterranean Sea was ever moving, stretching and undulating, its azure waves gently lapping against the rocky shore. The sunlight flapped and danced on the water's surface, and created a dazzling display of light and shadow in its motion. The breeze gently blew through the restaurant, coming off of the water and brought with it a wafting mix of salt and minerals as the rhythm of the waves provided a soothing soundtrack to the meal, creating a timeless connection between the land and the sea.

Finally, to close the perfect meal trifecta, the Paccheri pasta with fresh lobster arrived, steam rising from the plate like broad stands of sonic waves. The pasta was thick and toothsome, the lobster sweet and tender. The tomato sauce was light, delicate, tangy, and allowed the lobster to take the full center stage on my plate. It was a dish that respected its ingredients, allowing each component to shine. I ate slowly, savoring each bite, letting the flavors dance on my tongue while I continued to sip and enjoy the incredible bottle of Tignanello. I polished off the last of the Super Tuscan, I realized I'd spent the better part of three hours at lunch. See? “Italy Time” is absolutely a thing and is as real as any other experience here if you only allow yourself the opportunity to embrace it and actually take the time to sit back and enjoy the entire experience. Time moves differently here on the Amalfi Coast especially. It stretches and bends like saltwater taffy, until you're not quite sure if it's lunch or dinner or some other time in between. But that's the beauty of it. The ability to lose yourself in a moment, and to forget about the deadlines and obligations, allowing yourself to just... be.

I settled the bill, which was predictably, eye-watering, and stumbled out into the early evening sun. The narrow streets of Positano beckoned me back even more adamantly. With only a day to spend here before I had to jump on my zippy scooter and head back, I wanted to dive into the labyrinth of steps and alleyways that seemed designed to confuse and delight in equal measure. I let my feet guide me as I always did, wandering past boutiques selling overpriced linen shirts and ceramic shops offering gaudy trinkets that would look absurd anywhere else but here. Expectedly, as the sun began its slow descent towards the horizon, bathing the sky in a smear of orange, purple and yellow, I ordered a Negroni from a nearby bar, and made it a double. A Negroni–that holy trinity of gin, vermouth, and Campari that also seemed to taste better the closer you got to Italy. That drink that that Stanley Tucci set the Internet on fire with. Yes, that one. I wrapped my fingers around the cold glass, gripping it for dear life, and descended the countless steps to Spiaggia Fornillo. The beach was packed with new arrivals. The day’s sun worshipers had all bundled up and headed back to their hotels, their children in tow, packed with their sand toys and beach umbrellas. Couples stood around and watched the sun taking its bow on another splendid day after smiling on the Amalfi. I found a spot on the pebbly shore and settled in to watch the sunset, my toes scratching the pebbles back and forth in an almost meditational flexing.

As I stared out into the vast expanse of sea and sky, I suddenly remembered the Negroni that I had brought with me, and absentmindedly placed down next to me on the beach. I raised the glass, the cool condensation running along my fingers as I lifted it gently to my lips, almost toasting to the sunset. The first sip hit me like a velvet sledgehammer. It was bitter, sweet, and complex – much like life itself. I nursed my glass and watched the interplay between tourists and locals as they all sat or stood around me watching the sun continue to artfully paint the heavens in a live display of color. The visitors, sunburned and slightly bewildered were trying to navigate the intricacies of Italian social etiquette. The locals moved with the easy grace of those born to this lifestyle, tolerating the invaders with a mix of amusement and resignation. As the sky continued to turn multiple variations of pink and a deep, bruised purple, I sipped my drink and reflected on the day. It had been, by any measure, a good one. Good food, good wine, good views. To be honest, it was indeed the holy trinity of travel experiences. But more than that, it had been a day of living in the moment, of embracing the beauty and absurdity of this little corner of the world. Of strolling with no tourist map. Of experiencing the locals and tourists alike with the hopes of blending into the grey area.

As I mused, the last sliver of sun disappeared behind the horizon. I stood and made my way back up to where I'd parked my Vespa, my legs protesting every step of the way. I swung one leg over the seat and fired up the engine feeling a surge of excitement as the motor purred to life underneath me. Ahead of me lay the Amalfi Drive – that winding ribbon of road that hugged the coastline like a lover unable to let go. I raised the kick stand, pushed the bike forward with my feet and set off, opening the throttle, the wind in my face and the taste of Negroni still on my lips. I smiled. I strolled. I ate. I drank. I found small side streets where tourists never visited. I managed to slide into the grey area of perception; not quite a local but not really a tourist either. I experienced beauty. And if that beauty happened to come with a side of overpriced pasta, exorbitantly priced wine and the occasional surly waiter too used to dealing with tourist in a hurry? Well, that was just part of the package in the experience of travel. In the end, it was all just part of the grand, the messy, and the beautiful. It was hunger. It was discovery. And it was life. As I leaned into the first of may elegant curves on my way home, I pushed the Vespa forward and opened the throttle. I knew that a part of me would always remain here in this slice of paradise that rapidly retreated behind me in the distance, forever wandering the steep stairs and hidden alleys of Positano.